The Missing Piece (34 page)

“Are you in a rush?” said Gary.

“Not really.” McQueen took another long slug. “But retirement is beginning to look good after being involved in two courthouse shootings.”

“You were involved?”

“You know what I mean. I was there both times, inches from the shooters.” McQueen slugged again, shorter this time, then held up the mug to the light.

“Something wrong, Mike?”

“Nah, just … ah, nothing.” He set the mug down and rubbed his eyes.

“Geez, Mike. Don't go falling asleep on me. This is the biggest night of our lives.”

“Yeah, sure is,” said McQueen.

“Here.” Gary raised his mug. “Another toast. To Ivan. May we remember him forever.”

McQueen leaned forward. They clinked mugs and they both drank to Ivan. McQueen went to set his mug down, but missed the table. It lay on the floor, froth spilling onto the rug.

“Sorry, Gary,” he said, groping for the mug. “Shit, when Urse sees this mess.”

“Don't worry about Ursula,” said Gary. “This is my place, remember.”

“Yeah, Gary, right. Your place.” McQueen's head dipped, then lifted. His eyelids fluttered. “Tired.”

“Been a long day, Mike. A long haul. But you know, Mike, there's something that's been bothering me for a while. See, when the IG came to the rehab, she asked me a bunch of questions about that day. She asked me whether anything provoked the gunman to shoot. I told her no, but I was lying.”

Gary hooked a hand under the coffee table and reversed the battle chair to drag it out of the way. Then he nudged the chair against the couch so he could lift McQueen's chin and slap his cheeks. McQueen's eyes fluttered, then rolled, then opened halfway.

“I lied to the IG because I knew you lied to the IG. Because it did me no good to tell the truth. You understand?”

McQueen moaned.

Gary dropped McQueen's head, rolled into the kitchen for a handful of paper towels, then rolled back to sop up the beer. By the time he finished, McQueen was dead out.

First thing Gary did was search for McQueen's service piece. It looked clean and felt heavy, like an old friend. He popped the magazine, saw it held all fifteen rounds, then slammed it closed.

“Thank you for listening,” he said. He lay the piece on the coffee table, then began to yank off McQueen's sneakers, strip off his pants, pull off his sweater. McQueen barely groaned. Gary tossed the sweater one way, the pants another in a depiction of wild abandon. Then he dragged McQueen onto his lap and drove into the bedroom.

Ursula lay on one side of the bed, facedown and naked. Gary raised the battle chair and dumped McQueen onto the other side. He pushed McQueen close, then sandwiched one of Ursula's legs between McQueen's. As a final touch, he removed McQueen's glasses and folded them onto the night stand. No matter how crazy things got, McQueen was always careful with his glasses.

 

CHAPTER 39

Long after Foxx departed, long after she ate a light dinner of grilled chicken, rice pilaf, and sautéed asparagus, long after she had changed into sweats, Linda nestled in the corner of the sectional in her living room. The television was off, the radio was off. She had lived through the day's news and did not want to hear it again. Instead, a mix of classical music played softly from the speakers above her head. Linda had never had any interest in classical music before becoming a judge. She could recognize just about any traditional Irish air and recite its title in Gaelic and English. But with classical music she was at sea once she got beyond
Ode to Joy
or
Claire de Lune
or
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.
Still she listened, thinking that classical was as good for her head as traditional Irish was for her spirit.

She flipped through a
New Yorker
, reached the end, and plucked another off the pile. For the last week, every day had been worse than the one before. Learning that her marriage was over was one thing; seeing a man shot dead not five feet from her was something else. She wished she could have a glass of wine, but the tightness of her waistband across her belly argued against it.

She put aside her second
New Yorker
and closed her eyes, but the horrible images behind her eyelids forced her eyes to snap open. She reached for another magazine.

Her cell phone rang. She knew it wouldn't be Hugh; even if he had heard of the shooting he wouldn't call. This wasn't like the last time. She lifted the phone, stared at the strange number for one more ring, then answered.

“Is this Judge Conover?”

“Who's calling?”

“Gary Martin.”

“Oh, Gary. Hi. It's Linda.”

“I heard what happened,” said Gary. “Horrible.”

“Horrible doesn't do it justice.”

“I'm glad you're all right. You sound all right, anyway.”

“Not really, but thanks,” said Linda. “Where are you? You sound like you're outside somewhere.”

“I'm right in front of your house.”

Linda went into the front den and saw Gary sitting in his wheelchair on the sidewalk, bundled in a parka with a blanket across his lap.

“How did you…?” she said. “Did I ever tell you where I lived?”

“No,” he said.

“Then how did you find me?”

“Uh, the Green Book,” he said, his voice inflecting like an incredulous teenager.

“Oh,” she said. “Right.”

A judge's home address was not public knowledge, nor was it a state secret. Home addresses and contact information for all high-ranking public officials were published in something called the Green Book. Gary likely had no access to a copy, but just as likely knew someone who did.

“Can you come out?” he said.

She eyed him through the window, saw him brush back a curly lock from his forehead, saw him smile his earnest smile. The same old Gary, just crippled beyond repair.

“Sure,” she said. “Give me a sec.”

She went into the hallway and took a coat from the closet. She was about to open the front door, then reversed direction to the elevator and descended to the basement. After all, this was Gary outside in the cold night air, not some stranger. Something had happened today that Gary understood all too well. And the truth was, now that she had a taste of solitude, she didn't really want to be alone.

She went out through the door beneath the stoop and walked up the concrete incline to the wrought-iron gate.

“Hey, over here,” she called.

Gary did an exaggerated double take, then rolled in her direction.

“It's good to see you, Gary,” she said, lifting the heavy latch.

“It's good to see you, too,” he said.

The gate creaked as she pulled it back, and they hugged as comfortably as two people could hug with the arm of a wheelchair between them.

“What's this?” she said, feeling a hard edge beneath the parka.

“Something I brought to brighten your night.”

“God knows my night needs brightening,” she said. “Do you want to come in?”

“How do I do that?”

“You'll see.”

Gary followed her into the basement. Halfway down a dimly lit corridor, Linda opened a door.

“An elevator?” said Gary. “How coincidental.”

“More like fortuitous in both the correct and the misused senses of the word,” said Linda.

She stepped aside while Gary backed into the tiny car, then squeezed in after him. As the car rumbled upward, she explained why the house came to have an elevator and how she and Hugh came to own it.

“Nice story,” said Gary. “But a slow elevator.”

“Luckily it isn't a skyscraper.” She was about to add that she probably wouldn't be living here much longer, but decided she didn't need to say it and Gary didn't need to hear it.

The elevator leveled at the first floor, and the door opened.

“Want anything to drink? Eat?”

“Seltzer?” said Gary.

“Have you ever come to the right place,” said Linda.

“That's what I was hoping,” said Gary.

They went down the hallway and into the kitchen. Gary nudged the wheelchair sideways against the long granite counter while Linda went behind and poured two glasses of seltzer. She settled onto a stool opposite Gary and pushed her coat off her shoulders.

“Cheers,” she said.

They clinked glasses.

“So, what will brighten my night?” she said.

Gary reached into his parka, pulled out the silver urn, and, with a magician's flourish, set it on the counter.

Linda caught herself between a cry and a swallow, then started coughing because the seltzer went down the wrong way.

“Is that what I think it is?” she finally managed. She put down her glass.

“Depends on what you think it is,” said Gary.

“The stolen urn?”

“The missing piece,” said Gary. “Yep. This is it.”

“But why? How? Were you…?”

“Involved in the heist? That would be some story, right? Hero court officer implicated in daring courtroom invasion. But it's nothing so interesting. I just figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“That the piece never left the courthouse,” said Gary.

“But how did…?” Linda stopped.

“How did I figure it out? Me? A court officer? How did I find it when everyone else in the world was looking for it? I spent a lot of time on the Internet, reading and looking for clues. I sued the court system. Did you know I sued the court system?”

Linda shook her head.

“Well, I did,” said Gary. “Only I wasn't interested in money. I was interested in what I could find out about that day, what no one else knew, what no one else was supposed to know. I got security feeds that proved to me those two bastards left the courthouse and the piece wasn't with them.”

“Impressive,” said Linda. “Brilliant.”

“Thanks,” said Gary. “But it wasn't because of brains. It was because no one thinks about this piece the way I do.”

“You actually went to the courthouse and found it yourself?”

“Nah. Mike actually found it. He was my man on the scene, my boots on the ground. I'd tell him where to look, and he would go look, and when he didn't find it in one place, I'd send him someplace else.”

“And where did he—did you, I mean—find it?”

“A place called the plenum. Know it?” Gary waited till she shook her head. “Few people do. It's a storage area on the mezzanine level between the third and fourth floors.”

Linda slid the urn close and ran a finger over the low-relief Roman soldiers, deer, boar, and mountains.

“You need to give it back,” she said.

“To who?” said Gary. “There's no rightful owner. You know that.”

“The auction house actually has legal possession.”

“Screw the auction house. I don't give a damn about the auction house. Mike had some cockamamie idea of waiting for the trial to be over and selling it to whoever won.”

“This isn't a windfall, Gary.”

“Hey, nobody knows that better than me.” He slipped his hand into his parka and adjusted something. “I don't care if the piece is worth five million dollars, ten million dollars, a billion dollars. It's not for sale. I needed to find this piece. It was essential that I find this piece.”

“Why, Gary?” She pulled her hands off the counter and folded them across her belly. “Why was it essential to find the piece?”

“Don't you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“That day,” said Gary.

“Of course I remember that day. No one who was there ever can forget that day.”

“I don't mean the heist. The heist is where everything went sideways. I'm talking about before the heist. Just before. The last time you and I and this piece were together. That's as close as we got.”

“We?” said Linda.

“I. We. What's the difference. It's as close as I got.”

“To what?”

“To giving you this.”

Gary slipped his hand into his pocket again and, with the same flourish as when he produced the urn, pulled out a book. He let it sit on the counter between them, then pushed it toward Linda.

“
The Missing Piece
?” she said.

“Open it,” said Gary.

With one hand, Linda fanned the pages.

“Not like that,” said Gary. “Here.”

He opened the front cover, bent it back, and creased it so that the book lay open-faced on the counter. Linda read only a few words of the inscription before her mind disengaged and her thoughts turned elsewhere.

“Well?” said Gary.

Linda forced a grin, gave a tiny shrug. Gary started talking, but she didn't hear the actual words. She was measuring, assessing. She was essentially in a cul-de-sac formed by walls, appliances, and the counter. She could reach the back door, but it was locked and bolted and chained. Not an easy exit. She could vault over the counter, get behind Gary, and make a break for the front door. It had fewer locks to handle, and if she ran fast enough she could put significant space between herself and Gary. But she couldn't be sure she would hit the floor cleanly or run without tripping. She could just fly around the counter and run past him. Catch him by surprise.

She drained the last of her seltzer, silently toed her slippers off her feet, gently pushed back her stool. Gary was parked facing the back door. Once she got past him—if she got past him—he would need to turn a complete one-eighty in a tight space before he could chase after her. That would be her move.

She waited until he lifted the book again, took his eyes off her so he could turn another page and crease it flat. Then she bolted.

The surprise worked. She ran around the counter and right past Gary.

“No!” he yelled.

She crossed from the tiles of the kitchen to the hardwood parquet of the hallway. She heard the screech of the wheelchair's tires, the whirr of the wheelchair's motor. But she was flying down the hallway, past the living room on one side, the elevator door on the other. She reached the doorway into the den. Up ahead was the foyer with its closet, its coat tree, its umbrella stand, its small desk where she dropped the mail. She focused on the front door, playing out the order in which she would turn the locks. Deadbolt first, latch second. Luckily, the chain wasn't set.